


Tyrannus

by aralias



Series: A Gothic Romance [1]
Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Alternate Universe - Regency, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Although it might just have been a dream, Biting, Gothic, M/M, Vampires, or are there?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27406528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aralias/pseuds/aralias
Summary: A young man is invited to stay in a large, gloomy house, far away from civilisation. The house is dark, a place of undiscovered secrets, of which the most intriguing and disturbing is none other than the true identity of its master: Tyrannus Pitch.“It’s not Victorian, it’s gothic.”
Relationships: Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Series: A Gothic Romance [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2006359
Comments: 59
Kudos: 159
Collections: Carry On Through The Ages





	Tyrannus

**Author's Note:**

> Tonnes of notes this time. 
> 
> The first is: it is a _bit_ Victorian. The framing narrative is Victorian and some of the novels I'm evoking are Victorian, but the main action is set in around 1820, and I wanted that joke for my summary. I also think it works as Baz is wrong - his house is neo-Gothic and my fic is neo-Victorian.
> 
> \--
> 
> This fic is inspired by:  
> ● [Carmilla](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/10007/10007-h/10007-h.htm)  
> ● [Northanger Abbey](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/121/121-h/121-h.htm)  
> ● [Pride and Prejudice](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1342/1342-h/1342-h.htm)  
> ● Bit of [Dracula](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/345/345-h/345-h.htm), bit of [The Mysteries of Udolpho](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/3268/3268-h/3268-h.htm), not much at all of Polidori’s [the Vampyre](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/6087/6087-h/6087-h.htm) but I had it open
> 
> It is also inspired by [BasicBathsheba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba), who first talked about the idea of a 'Northanger Abbey' AU over a year ago. I thought this idea was brilliant and clearly stole it for myself. Ban has been kind enough to allow me to write this anyway.
> 
> \--
> 
> Thank you [NineMagicks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/NineMagicks/works) and [Gampyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gampyre/pseuds/Gampyre) for your excellent betaing, and thank you to [Giishu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/giishu) for reading it early, and [BazzyBelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazzyBelle/pseuds/BazzyBelle) for running this fest, which prompted me to at last write an AU that wasn't just canon-divergence. 
> 
> \--
> 
> When writing historical AUs, you have to make a choice about how the characters talk and act. For various reasons, I decided to favour the gothic style above all else, so if the kind of thing you like to read is fic that feels a lot like the canon characters ... you won't find it here. 
> 
> But COTTA only comes round once a year. 
> 
> \-- 
> 
> I wanted to post the fic in its entirety today, however there is one scene that Simon doesn't send to Rainbow (i.e. a scene not suitable for publication), which should follow shortly afterwards should that interest you. 
> 
> Enjoy.

**PROLOGUE:**

_The following pages were sent to me some twenty years ago by an English Gentleman, with the strict instruction that, if they were to be published, it be done only after the death of all those mentioned within the MS. As to this directive, I have been faithful. To my dismay, I received a letter this week from a friend of his family who wrote to inform me of his passing and the circumstances around it, which were natural._

_My consolation is that I am at last at liberty to relate his story. After his first disclosure, he and I corresponded on several further occasions, during which I became more convinced both of his extraordinary character and the veracity of his Narrative._

_To what follows, I provide no additional precis. You will find the writer himself a student of the Fantastic and a conscientious and true storyteller, so far as any of us may ever understand our own experience._

– R. Rowell, 1872

**I**

**The Letter**

I had been staying with my friends, the Bunces, almost a month when a letter arrived inviting me to Pitch Manor. I might have paid it no mind for its author was, I thought, no friend to me, but for the fact that on the same day we had another arrival – a Miss Agatha Wellbelove.

She and I had once been engaged and should already have been married by the point this narrative commences. However, the engagement had been broken following a confession from the lady that her feelings for me were not as one’s feelings ought to be on entering into the holy state.

Perhaps my feelings were not as they should have been, either. Indeed, I now think that they could not have been, but it was with some reluctance that I released her for I thought myself in love with her. That alone would be enough to make our meeting again under the same roof difficult for both parties, but the situation was made all the more unhappy by what had followed. By which I mean, I had naturally supposed I was releasing her to wed another, but years had passed since then, and she remained unmarried. I had therefore concluded it was something about myself in particular that repulsed or discomfited her.

Miss Wellbelove had given no notice of her arrival, and so my friends had been unable to inform her of my presence. On seeing me in the dining room, she immediately offered to depart, if it gave me any discomfort to see her, but I would not allow it. Though she was the one at fault and I cannot always answer for my temper, I still retained a strong affection for her that forbad me causing her further pain or inconvenience.

“As it happens, I am already leaving tomorrow morning,” I announced, “to stay with Mr. Pitch.”

His letter was tucked in my breast pocket, and I withdrew it to add proof to my story. This was needed for my friends were well aware of the dislike that had existed between us almost since we first encountered each other in Bath two years earlier. Not from the very first moment, perhaps, for I was initially inclined to think well of him for reasons I will dwell more on later in the narrative, but he soon repulsed me and my overtures of friendship. In consequence, I spent much of that season expounding on the many failures of his person and character to all my acquaintance until they begged me for respite.

Further meetings (for he returned to Bath the following year, and even to the same hotel where I was lodging) had gone no better. He well lived up to the name he bore: Tyrannus, being both cruel and kingly in his behaviour. He continued to vex me with his arrogance and his cruelty towards all whom he considered lesser than himself. Since he was both blessed with extraordinary appearance and accomplishments, and in possession of a considerable fortune besides, a list of such persons was long indeed, but he seemed to reserve a particular contempt for me alone.

At the time I received his letter, I could think of no reason such a man might have written to me, as he had done, requesting my presence – no reason unless it was diabolical.

Here, then, my narrative takes a turn, for I do not use that word lightly. Rather I mean it in its truest sense, for in addition to his vendetta against myself, I had further proofs and had observed several oddities about the manner in which he lived that led me to question whether his nature was in truth foul and unnatural, more than simply disagreeable. In short, I thought him in league with the devil; his strength and grace far beyond those possessed by mortal men.

This, too, I had confided to the same friends who now received my intention to visit him with such astonishment.

“Are you then no longer of the opinion that Mr. Pitch is a vampire?” inquired Miss Bunce.

“On the contrary,” I said. “By accepting his invitation, I intend to prove that he is.”

**II**

**The Journey**

The younger brother of my friend Miss Bunce, Mr. Pacey Bunce, drove me into town so that I might catch the post.

From there, it was a matter of some hours’ journey, during which I read Mr. Pitch’s letter several times and derived no greater meaning from it than I had on first reading. I had recently achieved a kind of notoriety in certain circles for solving some little household mysteries on behalf of my father and his friends, and thought perhaps Mr. Pitch intended to seek my counsel, but had this been his intention I was certain he would have mentioned it.

Without other explanation, I was forced to conclude that he had indeed invited me to, at last, make good on the threat that had always existed between us, namely satisfy himself with the hot blood that ran in my veins. I resolved to be on my guard against him.

When I arrived in W—, I dined at an inn and enquired about onward transport. The landlady directed me to where I might secure a carriage and I had almost shaken hands on the deal when the driver asked me for further details of my destination. Until that point, I had merely conveyed that I knew it to be close by and he would be able to return by nightfall.

“I’m staying with a gentleman who lives nearby,” I informed him. “The house is Pitch Manor – I’m sure you know it well.”

The driver’s face instantly blanched. “You’ll find no one to take you there. ‘Tis a haunted place, young master. Only the most foolhardy would seek it out.”

To his confusion, I thanked him for this statement in the warmest manner. (I had yet to arrive at the house and already here was proof that my theory on my host’s origins might be correct!) However, my delight faded when I realised the driver had not exaggerated the fear in which the townsfolk held Mr. Pitch, and there was indeed no one in that town who would convey me the three miles to his property. Furthermore, no man would so much as lend me a horse, for they made it plain they expected neither the horse nor myself to return from that place.

Having penned a quick missive to Miss Bunce, informing her of everything that I had learned, I left as much of my luggage as I could do without at the inn and proceeded on foot. Three miles is not such a large distance and I was young and well able to manage it.

Unfortunately, I had not gone half-way when the heavens opened. Darkness followed shortly afterwards, sweeping across the land like an enormous bird intent on the capture of some small and helpless creature.

I must confess that I felt the hand of Mr. Pitch in my distress. Since first meeting that gentleman, I have spent much time in study of the vampire and its powers. It is well known that the strongest of their kind can command the elements, and I was convinced the weather that so assaulted me did so at the will of my host.

Even should this not be the case, still I blamed him for my condition. For it was he who had invited me and he whose ominous presence had forced me to arrive on foot. As a rational man, I knew he had sent for me but recently and could scarcely have anticipated I would come so soon or indeed at all. Yet, still I railed at the thought that no carriage had been sent to greet me, as much as I did against the cold wind and water that lashed at me through my clothing.

When I arrived at Pitch Manor, I was soaked through to my skin and in as foul a mood as I have ever known.

The daylight was, by now, much faded, and I saw little of the house itself. I merely observed its size and the gothic splendour of the battlements and clustered towers. It had a blackness even deeper than the night, standing in awful majesty against the gloomful air.

To approach, one proceeded down a long driveway lined with twisted, dying trees that were undoubtedly home to many eyes that watched all those who sought to enter.

At last I reached the end of the path, arriving at a great door, twice as tall as any man, and encrusted with iron nails. This door was lit by two covered torches that were still able to flicker weakly against the rain. In their feeble glow, I saw the walls of the great house were carved with many faces, each one screaming against some unimaginable horror.

Perhaps you think I should now have turned back, as the people I had met in the town had urged me. Certainly, my mind was alive with fear for my immortal soul, but to turn away from such a place – from such a man – was not in my nature and instead I seized the door-knocker and swung it heartily against the mighty door.

After a moment, there came the sound of rattling chains and bolts being drawn back. Then the door swung open revealing an elderly woman, who I took to be the housekeeper.

“My name is Simon Snow!” I told her, raising my voice so that I might be heard over the sound of howling rain. “Your master expects me.”

She gave me no answer but stepped aside, which I took to be assent to my entering. I did so, glad to be out of the rain, but finding little comfort in the hall I now found myself within.

I had just left the Bunces’s home, and could not help comparing their entryway to that of Mr. Pitch. In my friends’ home, the hallway was hung with a large chandelier, which was always lit. The walls had been painted a pale ivory. These, and other domestic touches, meant it was an inviting room even in the depths of the evening, and I always felt at ease when I arrived there.

The inside of Pitch Manor had the opposite effect upon me. Although the door was now shut upon the elements, still I felt chilled to the bone as a draught swept through the building. There was no light but for one held by the old servant, and another at the top of an ancient staircase.

For a moment, I thought I saw a face lit by that loftier illumination: a face that was as familiar to me as my own, with its high, sharp cheekbones and cruel mouth, all chiselled from the finest alabaster, and dark troubled eyes.

But when I blinked and looked again, Mr. Pitch (if he it was) was gone, as though he had never been there, observing my arrival with such dismay.

The housekeeper beckoned to me with a gnarled finger and I followed her up those same steps towards what would, in another place, have been called the living quarters, though I saw no other soul alive save myself and the servant.

Thus, began my stay at Pitch Manor.

**III**

**A Troubling Night**

The room I had been given to stay in was, to my surprise, well-appointed with all that I could desire. A fire had already been set in the grate and the room was bright and full of unexpected warmth. Thick, heavy curtains hung over a large window that might, on a finer day, give me a pleasant view of the grounds, though when I unlatched it and leaned out, I could see nothing beyond the black night.

It was past the hour for supper and Mr. Pitch did not call me for a nightcap, for which I gave him much silent gratitude, as all the clothes I had with me were in poor state due to the walk I had endured, and I would have appeared as lowly as I knew he already thought me.

Instead, I sought the comfort of my bed and fell into sleep. However, it was not the restful slumber hoped for by many a weary traveller that swept me into its tender embrace.

I slept, though I felt myself to be awake.

I lay in my room at Pitch Manor. I saw the fire in the grate now reduced to simmering embers, and the curtains that I had earlier pulled fast against the night were now drawn back as by some unseen hand. I could not hear the rain. It must have ceased as I slept.

Pale moonlight spilled through the now revealed window, which I perceived was open as I had left it when I sought my bed. A dark shape, large as a man, crouched on the sill and slipped softly to the floor.

If I had truly been awake, this would have been enough to make me fly from the mattress and seize the nearest weighty object to offer resistance towards whatever creature or brigand had scaled the walls. But in the dream, I was unable to move so much as a muscle or cry out.

I could only wait, my heart pounding in my chest, as the blackness swirled to the end of my bed and finally resolved into its true shape. A man in a loose, dark coat with long, dark hair hanging over pale features as exquisitely carved as those of any Italian marble.

I felt the mattress dip as he climbed up, crouching over me, his knees either side of my own. I trembled with fear and outrage as he came closer, but still I could not move. His weight restrained me, but more so, I believe it was his will that truly held me captive. I did not and could not protest as his cool fingers caressed my cheek, the curve of my lip and the sharp jut of my jaw before finally reaching the point in my throat where my pulse beat headily at his presence.

“Simon,” he whispered, using my Christian name as he had never yet done in life. “ _Simon_. Can you truly be mine?”

You may well imagine how I might have responded had I been in a position to do so. As it was, I could say nothing. The only sound that escaped me was that made by quick, thrilled breaths of terror. This seemed to please him for he caressed me further.

“You are mine,” he told me. “And shall be mine forever.”

His head dipped, as though to lay a kiss on my parted lips. But I knew it was not mortal vice he was intent on.

I felt his mouth land lightly against my throat, and then a sharp sting as though two needles had been driven deep into my tender flesh. Still I could do nothing, though my body arched with the shock, and he was forced to hold me down as he drank the bright liquid that kept us both alive. I felt the excess of it dripping, hot and wet, down my quivering neck as I surrendered to him.

I do not know how long it went on for. How long it was until he had drunk his fill and at last released me to lie, panting against bloody sheets. I know he licked his lips and that his eyes burned with a strange fire as he surveyed what he had made of me.

“Sleep well, beloved,” Mr. Pitch said as he left and my eyes flickered shut as if on his command.

**IV**

**An Explanation**

When I awoke, it was to discover the rain had indeed abated during the night. A servant must have entered and drawn the curtain, for a gentle light shone through the window and spilled across my pillow, and the fire was again lit in the grate.

They must, I thought, be well-trained, blind, or simply incurious to have tended to these domestic necessities without shrieking at the evidence of their master’s nightly debauch. But when I inspected my bedding, I found it not soaked in rusty blood as I had expected, but instead in much the same condition as it had been when I laid my head upon it.

Undeterred, I pulled down the collar of my nightshirt but could command no strong view of my own throat without the aid of a mirror. Such a thing had been provided for my convenience above a dresser and I leapt from the bed to examine myself within it. But to my astonishment, the mirror showed only my own skin and no blemishes beyond those with which I had been born.

Since I have already confessed that I knew what had occurred to be a feverish dream, you may wonder at my surprise at finding no evidence to the contrary. To the facts already established I therefore add two more.

The first is well known to those who study the vampire, and concerns the weakness of the human mind, which shrinks from the knowledge that there are such creatures in the world and chooses to take refuge in hopes they are mere fantasy. In this, we are unknowingly our own mortal foe and the vampire’s accomplice. Many are the accounts of young ladies wasting away, under the impression they have simply been dreaming of a beautiful youth feasting at their neck. I had no desire to suffer the same fate.

The second fact is particular to myself. It is simply this: that the previous night was not the first on which I had dreamt of Mr. Pitch.

This alone provides no great enlightenment and can occasion little surprise in the reader. My mind is an active one and, as you have undoubtedly surmised, often bent upon that gentleman. However, you may reconsider when I tell you that the first time I dreamt of him was many years before he and I exchanged a single word, or indeed laid eyes upon each other. It was also a true dream.

This is how it happened.

**V**

**The True Dream**

You may recall I mentioned I had reason to think well of Mr. Pitch before we met in Bath. This dream, then, was that reason.

I was then a mere child of eleven, though in the dream I was older: a youth of around twenty or there abouts. I stood in a busy room, amongst other well-dressed ladies and gentlemen. I was laughing, at ease. Then all at once, I felt a pull around my heart, as though I were a fish and some man had cast a hook that had sliced right into the tenderest part of me and was now being reeled in.

I did not resist – I let him pull, weaving through dancers and card players, until we stood before each other. You will know, now, who it was, but I will describe him as I saw him then. Taller than I was, and dressed in the finest fashions of the dandy. His hair was lustrous and dark, and his grey eyes drank me in hungrily as though only the sight of me could satisfy what ailed him.

He let me take his hand, which I could see was as important to him as it was to myself, and I clutched it passionately. Though it was many years ago, now, I still remember how cool his fingers felt within mine, and yet how well they fit there.

Moreover, I remember the strong feeling that immediately lodged in my breast that this man was a part of my own dear soul that I had carelessly misplaced. And that now we were together, I was a whole being, as I had never yet been.

I embraced him and did not draw back even when I felt the sharpness of his teeth against my neck, for I knew he would never hurt me unless I allowed him. Instead I told him to take all that he needed from me, for all that was mine was his, and he wept against my skin and told me that he felt the same. When he bit me at last, it felt like nothing so much as contentment, and I was gladder than I have ever been in all my life to give him succour. 

When I awoke, however, I was a child again. What had seemed so important as I slept felt queer and inconsequential, and I quickly forgot it in favour of my waking fascination with the military.

Imagine my surprise therefore when I first entered the Assembly Rooms at Bath, some ten years later, and recognised them from my dream.

This, still, I could have attributed to some means other than the supernatural. I do not believe I ever saw a likeness of the place before I entered it, but I cannot prove I did not. Perhaps some acquaintance had described the place so well that now I felt I knew it.

What could not be explained was that, after we had been there perhaps an hour, I felt the same twist within my soul that I have earlier described that dragged me from my companions. When I followed its urging into the card room, I found the man from my dream. He was dressed even as I remembered, and I felt the same powerful feeling of knowing him utterly before one word had been spoken.

Here, what I had dreamt began to diverge with reality, however. I eagerly introduced myself to him, seizing his hand, and he shook me off in horror.

“This is your first time in Bath, I assume,” he said coldly.

“Yes, sir, it is,” said I, much surprised at his tone and expression.

“But not your first time in society?”

When I still stared at him in astonishment, he continued, “You should apply to the Master of Ceremonies for an introduction to your superiors, Mr. Snow. But I will tell you now, it will not be granted for I have no wish to be better acquainted with you, so you would do as well to save your breath.”

And with that he left me, staring after him in astonishment, both at what had occurred and what had not, and with a strong distaste for his manners.

There, the story might have ended, had he not been invited to and consequently attended a private party hosted by some friends of Miss Wellbelove’s. This time, he could not escape being introduced to me and consequently of gaining my acquaintance, though we parted as soon as possible and did not speak beyond the merest few words to each other. 

With further reading, and further observation of his habits and manners, I came to the conclusion that my dream was not a prophecy, but in fact an idea planted in my mind by the vampire who pursued me. Such things have certainly been recorded in other cases and I believe the assumption was a sound one, though sometimes, I confess, I did doubt my own sanity in believing it.

The blood-drinking I had dreamt of (an occupation which I had initially assumed to be a metaphor for mutual succour, drawn from Christ and his disciples) now took on a far darker and more literal cast. It became clear that Mr. Pitch intended for me to meet him at the Assembly Rooms, and had prepared me to expect rapture, rather than death, at his lips.

The only trouble to this theory lay in Mr. Pitch’s behaviour. Having laid such a bed for me to lie in, he had never, until recently, attempted to be my friend as I might have expected, but had rather repelled me in the most determined manner.

However, even his coldness was at last explained to my own satisfaction by the depths of his cunning. If he admitted he knew me from a shared vision, he would also by necessity admit to being the creature of Satan I had perceived. Whereas, if he left me to pursue him, he would be free to operate without suspicion from any other than myself, whom no one would believe.

These, then, were the reasons I examined myself and the room for proofs that the dream had been more than a product of my febrile imagination, but without success. 

**VI**

**Bloodless Creatures**

I dressed with some considerable disappointment, the cause of which was not limited simply to my having to dress again in garments still heavy with water. Though no sane man would wish to be preyed upon by such a creature, I nonetheless felt it hard that I had had to endure the terror of the night with nothing now to show for it.

I comforted myself that I had not yet been in the house a day and had yet to even greet my host. He had given no indication of the desired length of my stay, but no doubt there would be ample opportunity still to unmask him.

I went down to breakfast, therefore, less disheartened than I might have been and dined heartily on a spread that had been laid out for me. Mr. Pitch was not in attendance, but, as I have already mentioned, I never saw him before midday and this was one of the most particular reasons I supposed him to be a vampire. I therefore did not expect him to appear or feel the slight of his absence when he did not. Indeed, I rejoiced that once again I was spared his condescension on seeing my poor state of dress.

As the day looked to be a much more cheerful one than the previous night, I thought I might take a look at the grounds. As I knew only too well from having traversed it during the blackest part of the night, the Manor was surrounded by a thick forest. I imagined it would be pleasant to escape the dank and empty rooms of Pitch Manor and walk in a fresh, green place.

Stepping out of the house, I found another servant, younger than the housekeeper who had greeted me, sweeping the driveway and instructed him to go into town to retrieve the cases I had left at the inn.

To my surprise, he begged my pardon and informed me that Mr. Pitch had anticipated my wishes and already sent a boy as soon as it was first light.

“Then I am much obliged to him,” I exclaimed. It was not a statement I had ever thought to utter in association with that gentleman and yet I was, sincerely, grateful.

With the arrival of my possessions assured, I left the servant to his sweeping and struck out across the dewy lawn towards the woods.

At first, my walk was as I had imagined: a pleasant diversion from the thoughts and troubles I had left behind me at the Manor. Here, the trees were evergreen and so held out against the pallor of the season. My soul thrilled with delight as I observed the verdant greenery, the rocky recesses, a small foaming stream – all exquisite in their natural perfection. The rain from the night before had left a freshness in the air that was reviving, and when I breathed in my senses were overwhelmed with the delightful scent of the earth and the sap of young trees.

But as I progressed deeper into the wood, I came upon the lifeless body of an elderly doe rabbit.

With some awful anticipation of what I would find, I knelt and inspected it further. At its neck were the two dark pinpricks I had expected to see on my own skin after I awoke. Looking closer, I realised the rabbit was not old, as I had imagined. It was young, and yet it had an emaciated look. This, I could see, derived from the body having lost all its lifegiving liquid, although there was no red upon her fur.

From where I crouched, I could see another limp coney, some way off from the doe. This too, when I looked closer, had clearly been drained of blood.

How many more I should have found if I had stayed longer I do not know, for at that moment I heard the sound of someone approaching through the undergrowth.

I stood hastily and was on my feet in time to see none other than Mr. Pitch emerge from deeper within the wood.

Though I had already concluded he must be responsible for the rabbits’ deaths, I had not expected or wished to see him while so poorly attired.

To my surprise, however, it was not only my own cheeks that crimsoned with the deepest blush, though he was as exquisitely clad as he always was – his coat and boots of a more practical cut than any I had seen him wear in Bath, but clearly of the highest quality and fashion.

I surmised he had seen the coney that still lay at my feet and was uneasy lest I comprehend how and who had brought it to its present unhappy condition. This realisation gave me satisfaction enough that I was able to stutter through the necessary pleasantries. I thanked Mr. Pitch for his invitation and for his thoughtfulness regarding my wardrobe. He, in turn, expressed his gladness at seeing me so soon and was pleased to assure me both that his actions had been no more than my due as his guest, and that he hoped to be of similar use to me throughout my stay at the Manor.

If I thought myself astonished at this civil greeting, it was as nothing to my shock that he next expressed the fervent hope I had left the Bunces in good health. (I should mention perhaps that the Bunces were in possession only of a modest fortune, which must be split between a large number of offspring besides. It had therefore always been my belief that Mr. Pitch looked upon them with a contempt only exceeded by that which he reserved for me, and yet here he asked after them as though they were his dearest friends.)

I assured him they had all been very well the previous day.

“I am glad of it,” said he, smiling with what seemed such genuine pleasure at the news that, for a moment, I forgot what he was and wondered whether I had always mistaken a lack of ease in company for arrogance.

This reflection lasted me as long as it took to draw another breath and recall the bodies at my feet. It was clear Mr. Pitch cherished a wish I had not seen them and aimed to keep me from doing so by distracting me with civility.

To this hope, I immediately put an end by drawing his attention to the nearest rabbit and its extraordinary condition.

“What can have killed it, do you suppose?” I inquired.

“A polecat, I expect,” my companion replied briefly. “We have many in the woods.”

Though his words were perfectly composed, I sensed some discomfort in his expression, and was not surprised when he changed the subject to ask how I had occupied my time since my arrival.

“I have only eaten your excellent breakfast, and begun to explore this wood,” I explained.

This answer seemed to please him. “Then, you have not yet seen the house?”

I told him I had seen nothing beyond my own room and the dining room, at which he entreated me to consent to accompany him on a tour of the rest of the property.

“I fear it is rather a grim place, but I should like you to see it and give whatever approval you feel it merits.”

He appeared in earnest, but I knew the scheme for what it was: an attempt to draw me away from the creatures he had drained and further interrogation on that topic. I was content to follow him, however, as I was certain I would discover more signs of his true nature within the walls of the Manor.

In this, I was unquestionably proved correct.

**VII**

**A Grand Tour**

As Mr. Pitch had indicated and I had expected from what little I had already witnessed since my arrival, the daylight did little to lift the gloom within Pitch Manor. The house was so large that many of the innermost rooms were not furnished with windows and, though it was the height of the day, when we visited these rooms it felt as if we did so at twilight.

Mr. Pitch lit a single candle and placed it inside a lantern, which he held aloft before us as we progressed so that I might not lose my footing.

“Are you a miser, sir? Or do you merely wish to keep me close at hand?” I asked as we progressed together down the dusky corridors, the lantern light flickering bravely. “I would have expected you could easily afford to light these rooms with tallow, if not with beeswax.”

In such grim light it is hard to say truly, but I thought he blanched. Yet his tone was as calm as it ever was as he answered.

“My brother and sisters are away, and these rooms have not been used since they departed. I do not invite unnecessary flames into my home for my own reasons – I hope you will excuse me for not explaining further at this time.”

This statement was intriguing and I greatly wished to enquire further. (Fire is, of course, one of the surest ways to destroy a vampire, and so to me, this seemed as close to a confession as I could have wished for.) But since I was certain he would not elaborate further, I merely acknowledged his wish for silence with a nod, for which he expressed his gratitude.

“Do you care for billiards, Snow?” Mr. Pitch asked as we encountered a room dedicated to the pastime.

I confessed that I did, though I had no table of my own and was an indifferent player in want of practice.

“Then we must play tonight,” he promised.

“You seek to claim an easy victory,” I observed amiably. “I have just told you my skill is inferior to yours.”

Smiling, he said: “One may surrender and enjoy the experience that led to it.”

At these words, I felt my skin flush for the second time that day. Whether by accident or design (and I suspected design), he had reminded me of the previous night’s dream in which I had most assuredly surrendered, though I acknowledged no enjoyment in it.

Mr. Pitch was close enough that the lantern light illuminated both our faces and, as I coloured, I thought I saw him watching the blood rise in my face with interest, though he did not remark on it. Instead he simply pressed me to agree to the engagement later that evening. In this, I was happy to oblige him, for I had no true objection to the idea.

With my society assured for the evening, he allowed me to leave that room, leading me instead to a library full of richly bound tomes that loomed over us from high bookcases.

“I am an avid reader,” I assured Mr. Pitch, who nodded as though he had not on three prior occasions accused me of being an illiterate.

I was still smarting from his remarks in the billiard room and so continued with a wicked relish: “My most particular interest is in the subject of the supernatural. Especially that most foul and wicked creature, the vampire. Do you have texts of that kind, here, I might read during my stay?”

“I’m afraid I cannot tell you,” he replied. “I have never been interested in that topic myself.”

I laughed and, rather than provoke him further, enquired what subjects he did care for. Though at first reluctant to be drawn even on this, as though suspecting some trap, he was eventually persuaded to acknowledge a love of music and classic design. We had both recently toured the continent and recollections of the experience kept us in pleasant conversation until I noticed a set of beautifully carved and inlaid folding doors.

They were of quite a different style to the rest of the house, having clearly been installed by a person of exquisite taste after the time of Napoleon’s victory in Africa, judging by the motifs. I was about to throw them open and see for myself what lay beyond such an attractive façade when Mr. Pitch shouted in alarm. He even seized my arm violently to arrest my steps.

This action astonished me. I had been attempting to unsettle him into revealing himself all day to no obvious effect. He had been languid, bordering on serene. Now, he was most assuredly distressed, his long, elegant fingers wrapped tightly around my wrist with an inhuman strength.

What could be behind the doors to have provoked such a reaction? The coffin he spent his nights in? The bodies of nubile young ladies he had feasted on, now drained of blood?

Aware of my evident curiosity, Mr. Pitch explained, in the most agitated fashion, that the quarters beyond the door belonged to his mother, who had died when he was a child. The rooms had been left undisturbed since that point. He wished that this should continue.

“If nothing else, they would be abominably dusty,” he finished. “I could not in good conscience allow you to step foot within such a place before the servants had seen to it.”

I agreed that there was little so unpleasant as being racked with fits of sneezing and did not attempt to breach the tantalising doorway while in his presence. This was enough for him to release me at last and we walked on, to all appearances as companionably as before.

Yet if what was beyond the doors had been of interest to me before, this was now as nothing to my present feeling. I felt it was vital to understand what was hidden from me, and that there was nothing in the house I must see more urgently.

I resolved to return while he slept.

**VIII**

**A Wonderful Likeness**

After that distressing and fascinating incident, Mr. Pitch led me through other rooms that I will not trouble myself to describe, save to note they were all as richly furnished as the others. However, one further event occurred towards the end of our tour that I think it worth dwelling on.

It happened in a gallery lined with paintings in gilded frames.

Though it was a well-appointed room, well-lit by exterior windows, Mr. Pitch was anxious to walk quickly through it, since he was certain I could have no strong interest in his family portraits. Yet, my eye was caught by a peculiar painting of the gentleman himself, hanging above the fireplace.

It was of course handsome, as no portrait of Mr. Pitch could be otherwise and yet still like him. This was not the strange thing, nor was the smile that tugged his lips into a soft curve, though it was certainly a rare sight. The strangeness was all in his dress: he wore a velvet coat, dense with braiding and embroidery, over a long waistcoat and breeches, and most astonishingly a powdered wig instead of his own darkly flowing locks.

“I had never thought to see you in such unfashionable clothes,” I remarked. “I cannot think why you choose them for your portrait.”

In truth, I had already seen the date of the painting – 1764 – next to the artist’s signature, but I thought it possible Mr. Pitch had forgotten it was there, since it had been more than fifty years since he had stood for the portrait. If he agreed with my conjecture, I would instantly point out the true origin.

Almost all accounts I have read of the vampire attributed their kind with eternal youth and life, if given access to living men's blood. And here, before my own eyes, was proof that this was so. Mr. Pitch might be as ancient as Methuselah, though he appeared to be my contemporary, a man of no more than five and twenty.

I was sure he had at last revealed himself, and could not have been more convinced of the rightness of my own insight had I found him with his teeth buried in the neck of that most venerable housekeeper who had admitted me to the property the day before.

However, here again Mr. Pitch was to disappoint me.

“I fear you have mistaken me for my grandfather,” he said gravely.

“Then you are as like him as two peas in a pod!” I replied, assuming a mocking air to let him know that I was far from fooled by such a story. “Are you certain this is not you? It is certainly marked with your name.”

This was certainly the case: the words _‘Tyrannus Pitch’_ had been picked out by some long-forgotten craftsman in black against the ornate golden frame that now surrounded the picture of my host.

I hoped Mr. Pitch would change his story to agree with this information, but he only sighed and said:

“My mother named me after him, though I have never borne the name. My family and intimate friends call me by my middle name, which is Basil.”

I might have pressed him further if he had not astonished me by further adding:

“You may do so, if you like.”

I could not explain it. Was this not the same man I had met at Bath? Surely the same arrogant man who had refused to shake my hand when offered in friendship before flatly refusing to be introduced to me, would not now suggest such intense and frightening familiarity existed between us. And yet – if my initial dream were true, as I believed it was – what acquaintance had I treasured longer?

It is hard to describe my thoughts and feelings at that moment. I felt both that he was right (that nothing could be righter, than to do as he wished) and, at once, a deep abhorrence at being asked to call my enemy by his personal name.

Since we had met, I had done nothing to endear myself to him. Instead I besmirched his character in the most abominable way – a thing I could only excuse in myself due to my firm belief that he was no gentleman, but in fact a creature of the night.

He had evaded every attempt I had made that day to expose him, so I had no reason to suppose he would answer me, and yet my curiosity would allow me to do no less than ask the questions that lay beneath all the others.

“Why did you invite me to your house? Why have you changed towards me so much?”

Mr. Pitch – Basil, as I will henceforth call him – gave me a melancholy smile that I could not then decipher, though I think now I know the cause of it.

“I will tell you,” he promised, “if you only stay with me a week or more.”

“And shall you call me Simon if I do?” I asked.

He coloured, which gave me all the satisfaction I had hoped for, and said he would, if I wished it.

So, I found myself consenting to remain with him, and from this point onwards, we addressed each other as affectionately as brothers. And if I did any of this for any reason other than a most earnest desire to understand if my suspicions concerning him were founded, I can at least say I was quite unaware of it.

**IX**

**Surrendering**

I retired to my room late that evening in excellent spirits. As my host had foretold, he had taken every victory at the billiard table, but my pleasure in the game and, to my surprise, his company was more than equal to any disappointment.

I had also dined well and consumed a bottle of excellent wine. Besides which, my luggage had at last arrived and I had therefore undertaken all the activities mentioned in clothes that were neither travel worn nor waterlogged. I felt extremely well.

Having had the many strange and unsatisfying conversations with Basil that I have hitherto related, I was under no illusions that my subconscious might well manifest further scenes of depravity to torment me with during the night. But my limbs and my head were heavy with sleep and with drink, and as sleep enfolded me in its arms, I did not resist.

You may imagine for yourself what I saw, heard, and felt that second night. It is enough to say that again he drank from me, and again he whispered words no gentleman would say to another in the light. Again, I did not – could not – resist.

What is notable is that, on this occasion, I awoke before the climax of the dream: after his teeth had pierced me, but before his affectionate departure.

I sat up, seeming to see a man’s black coat whipping out the open window as I did so.

My heart was beating fast in my chest, my breathing rapid and uneven. The curtains were also of a dark material and I could not be certain that what I had perceived had not been a snatch of that same fabric, caught in a contrary gust of wind and blown outwards.

I went to the window and leaned out, but could see no sign of Basil, nor of any other who might have perched recently on the ledge and observed my slumbering form. Had it truly been nothing? Was it all, indeed, nothing but a fantasy? I could not believe it.

It was after dawn, but just barely. For a while, I stood there, fortifying my tremulous spirit with the sight of the lawn and the woodland suffused in the tender golden glow of morning.

Then, when I felt able to, I dressed and crept downstairs to the doors I had been unable to pass the previous day.

**X**

**Beyond the Doors**

I saw no one and heard no one as I slipped quietly through the house towards the rooms Basil had claimed once belonged to his mother. Though I had seen the place but once, I had little difficulty in finding it again, due to the sense of direction I had nurtured since childhood. This, along with my belief in my own intuition, had led to most of my prior successes in the detective sphere, and I trusted in both now.

When I reached the inlaid doors, I set the candle I had brought at my feet, having decided it was wise to have my hands available in case I should be set upon immediately. Then, I flung the doors wide, raising my arms to defend myself – but no shadowy figure leapt out at me, no demon pulled me into his embrace.

Indeed, the doors I had thrown open revealed a pleasant hallway hung with pictures and set with a number of other doors. This apartment was clearly situated on the edge of the house and the pale light of morning shone through many large windows. So far, it looked benign. Had any bodies been hidden in this hallway, I should certainly have seen them.

I noted that it was, as Basil had feared, thick with dust, but otherwise there was nothing that might alarm the senses. Nothing perhaps except a darker patch spreading outwards from the top of one of the doorframes. If it had been a stain of blood, I would have expected it much lower, but still it was nonetheless an intriguing blemish on that otherwise amiable hallway.

With no further delay, I seized the handle of that particular door, noting that someone or something had forced the lock on it sometime in its earlier history, and it was already quite unable to resist my entry. I pulled the door toward me and beheld a sight that still haunts me to this day.

The room beyond was all tinged with that same blackness that I had seen outside the door.

Shapes that had, I thought, once been a bed, a wardrobe, a set of chairs were now defined in ash and further dust. The wallpaper that had once been gay and fashionable now flaked from the walls in scorched, jagged pieces; while two large windows that should have shown a handsome view of the park were still dim, as though masked with the smoke that must once have filled this room.

Upon standing in that charred and blackened place, I recalled Basil’s words to me the day before that he would not welcome fire within his walls, and knew with sudden awful understanding that this must be because fire had claimed the precious life of the lady who had lived here.

This, I realised, was his great secret: this unvoiced devastation.

It seemed all too natural to me now that he would not wish to show her rooms to the lumbering fool who had invaded his house. The manner of her death was still too shocking and too painful, and he had still to tidy that pain neatly away with re-painting and re-furnishing. He could not possibly wish to bare this agony to me, or to present it to me as some point of interest equal to the billiards room or library.

I do not know how long I stood there, shrouded in shame and in the knowledge of my own foolishness. I believe it was not long, though when one is forced to examine one’s own prejudice, the seconds that feel like nothing in happy times weigh one down like years.

When I finally stepped back into the same corridor I had come from, I saw the painting that had been hung on the opposite wall, so that the occupant of the room might glance on it with pleasure each morning as she left. It was of a dark-haired woman and a child in modern clothing, standing in an affectionate pose together in what I could only assume was this very room. Had I any doubt as to who I saw depicted before me, it would have been instantly dispelled by the soft green leaves clutched in the hand of the child.

_Basil._

He had been a child, then, twenty years ago, not an immortal monster. The only villain was myself.

My shame now complete, I fled that place, not caring that I left footprints in the dust to attest to my callous intrusion.

**XI**

**Agony**

I had thought to avoid Basil’s company until I could reflect on what had occurred with more tranquillity, but when I arrived at the dining room to break my fast, I found him there, already awake. I would have turned and retreated immediately had it not been for the kindly look he bestowed upon me, which urged me to sit with him, though it sliced through me with a force that simple accusation could not hope to wield.

I sat soberly at my place, and he returned to the letters he had been reading when I arrived until I had finished eating. Once this office had been dispatched, he informed me of his intention to go riding and asked if I might accompany him.

I could deny him nothing and was pleased to go with him to the stables, where he loaned me the service of a pretty chestnut mare. His own mount was, I noted, the kind of black and fiery stallion I would once have imagined bearing a lord of hell upon its back, but today I did nothing to voice this thought. I merely followed him as he showed me the full extent of his property, pointing out many charming views in which I could take no delight, tormented as I was by my own conscience.

At last, as we stopped to give the horses rest and water at a sparkling brook, I could restrain myself no longer. In a torrent of remorseful words, I told him what I had done – and as much of what I had suspected of him as I could bring myself to own. I told him all, except that I had truly thought him a demon, and begged his forgiveness.

He was, I am certain, considerably distressed, but assured me that he knew my nature and felt himself as much to blame as I. This I absolutely denied, insisting the fault was mine, and he smiled and agreed I could bear it if I must.

Having agreed this point, he walked off a little way to compose himself before enquiring in a voice trembling with emotion how the place was.

“For,” said he, “I have not laid eyes on it these fourteen years.”

I forced myself to calmness and replied that it was indeed a handsome suite, though I begged him to send some servant to set the bedroom to rights before he set foot within himself. He thanked me for the thought and could only agree, though he did not plan to return there soon himself.

As we mounted again, I at last recollected myself enough to mention the portrait I had seen outside his mother’s door.

“I could retrieve it for you,” I offered, my boorish tongue stuttering over the offer, lest I offend him further. “It might bring you comfort to have it.”

Again, I saw him grow pale, before he replied: “I had forgotten such a painting existed.”

I thought this a dismissal and said no more about it, but when I met him that night in the dining room, I saw that he had retrieved the painting by some other means than myself. It now hung proudly on the wall behind my own head, where Basil could not help but glance at it with many soft looks as we ate.

**XII**

**The Sun Rises**

I slept poorly the third night, which (on waking) I attributed to guilt I had yet to expunge.

From this reasoning you may tell what state my mind was in. I not only felt sincere remorse but also knew myself to be the cause of my own misfortune and had reflected well on it.

I had thought I heard the sound of piteous wailing, which at some other time I might have taken for the lament of spirits unjustly cut loose before their time. But that morning, I knew the sound to have been no more than the restless wind, and knew I could have quieted it with a simple latching of the window.

As I had not slept well, I also had not dreamt of Basil. These facts followed on one from the other.

It was not the case that he had taken fright at being so nearly caught at my window, and had not dared to visit. Certainly, I had mentioned my fancy of seeing a man there, as we two sat comfortably together in his smoking room the previous evening; more out of habit than design. This had thrown him into some alarm, which in another time I might have taken for proof of his involvement, but which I now reasoned was the anxiety of wealthy man in fear of burglars. I was quick to assure him I knew what I had seen had been a curtain and nothing more, and he pronounced himself soothed.

My own spirits were clearly still uneasy, however.

Rather than risk another sleepless night, I resolved to better myself and to behave in a more gentlemanlike fashion to my injured friend. Happily, I had already devised a scheme that I thought would bring relief to us both.

When he had shown me the estate the previous day, Basil had briefly indicated a small chapel in which he told me his ancestors had been laid to rest.

I had been too consumed with my own thoughts to insist on visiting it immediately, and could not besides have asked for such a favour as he would think it yet another attempt to expose him for a vampire. To visit such a place for such a reason would be a desecration, and he would have justly forbidden it.

But this morning, I could think of nothing more appropriate than that I should walk out to that self-same chapel and pay my respects at the grave of his mother.

It was less than a mile from Pitch Manor, and so I did not call in the stable for a horse, nor did I tell any servant where I was headed. I merely cut quickly across the park and soon arrived at the place in question.

Close to, it was immediately clear that the chapel had been dreamt up by that same mind which had given the house in which I was staying such a threatening and melancholy aspect. Here too were the Gothic arches and the topless towers, and though the carved faces were those of angels, and not demons, they seemed in a kind of agony over the sins of man.

At another time, I might have thought much of it, but in the bright light of this particular morning, I merely reflected that Basil could not choose the resting place of his forefathers, any more than he could his ancestral home. He clearly kept this place well-tended, for there was a clear pathway through the foliage to the entrance, and I embarked upon it without fear for what I would find within.

Once inside, I sought the most recent grave, which must, I supposed, naturally belong to the mother of my friend. But before I could locate it, my eye was caught by an open sarcophagus, carved from heavy stone.

Looking back, I can no longer be sure of what my feelings were in that moment. Did I feel a sense of dread as I approached it, or did I take comfort in my newly held belief that things were as they were, and the world only as marvellous as science had decreed it?

I seem to remember feeling an awful presentment of what I would find if I looked within the coffin – and yet this may be nothing more than a trick of memory.

What is certain is that I did look, and that what I saw there made my knees weak with horror.

It was a man, lying as though asleep on a bed of earth.

A man with high, sharp cheekbones and a mouth I had once thought cruel, all chiselled from the finest alabaster. A man with dark eyelashes covering troubled eyes. A man with a face that was as familiar to me as my own.

It was Basil.

**XIII**

**Awakening**

It is a terrible thing to be proved right in all suspicions only at the point at which you have not only accepted you are mistaken but now actively wish to be so. I no longer hoped to prove Basil a vampire, and yet I was at a loss to otherwise explain why I had found him lying in his own tomb.

The idea that I had found a relative of his, wonderfully preserved, I discarded. Quite apart from this being a miracle of modern science hitherto unknown, the man in the coffin wore the same clothes as Basil had when I bid him goodnight some twelve hours previous.

I considered, too, the notion that this was a jest he thought to play upon me, since I had not thought to hide my foolishness from him until recently. But he could have had no notion that I would visit the chapel this morning, since I had told no one of my intention. What is more, surely a prankster would already have jumped from his earthy bed and crowed at my naivety?

Lastly, I forced myself to contemplate the painful possibility that Basil had fallen ill the previous night, that no one had wakened me to tell me of it, and that now I looked upon his corpse. But when I touched him, I found his body still warm, though I could not wake him, and with close attention I perceived the gentle rise and fall of his chest that spoke to his continued life.

Perhaps you think I should have seized a length of sharp wood from the thicket outside and driven it through his heart while he slept. That is the way to destroy a vampire. Or I could have returned to the house for a sword to decapitate him; or brought matches and tinder to set alight that place of death and burn the demon from the land with sacred fire.

I did none of these things. Indeed, the mere thought of doing so, without giving him the opportunity to defend himself, filled me with absolute abhorrence. I therefore attempted to calm my turbulent thoughts and settled myself watchfully against one of the graves.

And, at length, he awoke.

I shall not soon forget the fear in his eyes when he saw me there. That alone would have been enough to reassure me I had been right not to act hastily, but his voice also shook as he said my name.

“Simon! You must allow me to explain.”

“Are you not a vampire?” I asked.

He did not deny it.

“But you have nothing to fear from me, I swear it,” he said imploringly. Nor has any other Christian soul, but you most of all.”

A week earlier, I would not have believed it. But I had then been in his house – entirely at his mercy – for three complete days and had suffered no worse at his hand than to be defeated thoroughly at billiards.

I therefore allowed him to climb out of that tomb and follow me out of the chapel into the light of the day. Some frequent visitor to the chapel, perhaps Basil himself, had installed a bench just outside, under the protection of a shady tree. I sat, gesturing for him to do the same at my side, and eventually he did.

“Please,” I urged. “Tell me everything.”

**XIV**

**Basil’s Story**

“I should have told you all from the beginning,” he admitted regretfully. It was in my mind to ask him what date he considered that to be – the beginning of my stay at Pitch Manor, or the first time we had met in Bath? But I held my tongue, and he continued:

“As I think you have surmised already, I was not born a vampire, though I no longer remember being otherwise. I believe I was happy. I was devoted to my parents and to my mother above all, and she in turn doted on me. That picture you were so good as to remind me of was painted in honour of my tenth birthday and hung always in my mother’s chambers.

“I was a clever child, interested in art, music and natural philosophy. Of course, I did not believe in vampires.”

At this, he smiled at me, as though to mock me for my credulity, but the smile dropped as he returned to his narrative.

“To this day, I do not know how they entered the house. I was eleven, passing my mother’s rooms on my way to bed when I heard her scream. I did as I believe any enterprising youth would have done in my position and threw myself through the doors to her quarters in the hope of providing aid. I was instantly caught by one of them, which must have been when he bit me, though as you will certainly be aware, my dear Simon, that alone would not have been enough to change me.

“I remember my mother begging the man to release me, which I could not abide. I bit down on the hand that held me and drew his blood into my mouth.”

At his side, I heard myself admit a gasp of horror, though he had been correct regarding my studies, which had taught me all that mortals knew of how to create a vampire. I was therefore aware that an exchange of blood was necessary to turn a victim into a creature of the night and had been prepared for what I had imagined was the worst he could tell me. I had not imagined that Basil’s own childish heroism had been his downfall, and it cut me deeper than I could have hitherto imagined to hear him speak of it.

“Even this resistance was not sufficient,” my friend continued wretchedly, letting me take his hand as he continued. “The monster held me fast and would, I believe, have killed me had my mother not seized a lighted candle from the wall and hurled it towards the man who held me. He was instantly destroyed and I fell to the ground.

“My beloved mother then forced me from the room and locked herself and the two remaining creatures within. Try as I might, and I assure you I have never attempted anything with so much determination, I was unable to regain entry to the room. I am since convinced I should have left to summon aid, but I was unwilling to leave my mother until I heard the flames within and felt the heat through the door.

“I ran for my father, but when I returned with him the suite was entirely engulfed in flame and it was all he and his men could do to extinguish it before it spread further into the house. My mother had perished, and I was becoming one of the things that killed her. Indeed,” and I saw tears bloom on his eyelashes, “I have often thought perhaps I killed her by lingering when I knew it was futile to do so. She might have lived if I had brought my father sooner.”

“You did well,” I told him, unable to be silent while he wept and blamed himself. “You could have done nothing more.”

This seemed to give him strength to continue. He gripped my hand more tightly with long fingers that were as cool as marble and spoke again:

“As I fell into my bed that night, I thought I should never know joy again. I only slept when I had cried myself to exhaustion, and I was convinced my dreams would be as full of nightmare as my waking day had been. But in this, I was mistaken, for I dreamt of you.”

He then relayed to me the same dream that I myself related earlier in this narrative, exact in every particular that could be expected. I confirmed I had shared the same vision and he nodded.

“I assumed as much when you greeted me in Bath in so peculiar a fashion.”

I shook my head. “You were right to reprimand me. My behaviour was unforgivable, and yet I truly thought you would welcome me.”

“I wanted to,” Basil exclaimed, eyes still bright with unshed tears. “Oh Simon, you know not how I wanted to. But how could I acknowledge a dream that had shown me for what I was? It had given me comfort on my darkest night to think I might, in future, meet a golden youth who would not shun me for what I could not help. But when at last we met, I had lived a decade with my curse and knew all too well the horror of it.

“You must believe, I have never harmed a human life – I survive on rabbits and other game, as you discovered for yourself. But my heart barely beats, and I must return each night to sleep amongst the earth of my fathers. I am repulsed by my own monstrous condition, and I knew I could not hope for acceptance from you, so I offered you none.

“And yet the thought of you consumed me. I longed for your company with a passionate intensity that drove me twice to Bath with no other intention than of seeing you, yet once there I could do nothing but push you further from my grasp for your own protection. 

“You asked me yesterday, why I had changed towards you. It must now be clear that my feelings have not altered, if anything they are stronger now. I do not know what madness compelled me to write to you. I had no notion of your accepting my invitation – but once I had done it, I resolved, if you accepted, to show you as much of my true character as you would allow, and then to ask you for your judgement.”

I could not imagine what judgement I could possibly give such a man and entreated him to explain further, before I could pronounce it.

“I am a vampire,” Basil said quietly. “I have long wondered whether I ought to end my own existence and rid the world of one of its evils.”

“But you have never hurt a Christian soul!” I exclaimed.

“I thank God, I have not,” Basil said. “But there is enough monster in me that I desire it: the hot blood that flows through mortal men.” He raised his free hand, then, and brought it to my throat where the same blood he hungered for thundered beneath my skin. “What if one day I should forget myself and take it?”

I answered him calmly. “I do not believe you would forget yourself, Basil.”

His grip tightened. “But you cannot know.”

I put my own hand over his, keeping it at my throat. “You might take what was offered to you, but never that which was withheld. I have known you since we were both boys, and I know you are no monster. And yet, if it will put your mind at ease, I am content to stay with you here, to guard you from yourself as I believe you hoped I might.”

At this he protested he would never have been so presumptuous, but I laughingly reminded him that he had asked me to stay with him at least a week and that I now saw he meant forever.

“This, then, is your judgement?” he asked me as we sat together outside that chapel, our hands still entwined.

I told him I could have no other.

**~~XVI~~ XV**

**Conclusion**

I do not know how you will receive this narrative. If you believe it at all, you may wonder at my actions. How was it that I so quickly resolved to leave alive the vampire I had intended to unmask? Why I not only kept his secret faithfully for many years, but also willingly renounced my own inheritance to dwell with him, as close as any man and wife or pair of brotherly comrades.

To this, I merely say the years have justified my faith in him.

I have yet to discover any cure for his affliction and do not think it likely I ever shall, despite the many scholars whose work I have consulted. To this day, therefore, his thirst for blood remains unquenched and, I believe, troubles him exceedingly, though I can vouch that he never drinks but from myself and from the same animals that any mortal man might feast upon.

His tongue, too, is as sharp as it ever was (by which I mean, sharper than either his wit or the great teeth that are the most visible sign of his curse along with his pallor), and many an unwary fool has found themselves the victim of _that_ weapon – but in this they suffer no more than their just deserts. Indeed, many even find themselves improved by it, though Basil wickedly says I am not one of them.

In all his other dealings, he is the kindest man who ever lived and the truest friend.

On meeting his tenants, I found they all held him in the highest regard, and the elderly servants I encountered have known him since childhood and justly dote upon him. Even the townspeople of W—, who had warned me away from the doors of Pitch Manor with such sincere alarm, were soon revealed to be in fear of restless ghosts, said to dwell within the walls of the house. This rumour had begun decades earlier, long before the birth of my friend (who, I may also mention here, grows old, as I do: a thing he both welcomes and regrets, for he is as vain as ever). Rather than blame him for attracting the rancour of the spirits, I was astonished to discover that many in the town believed the haunting had lessened since he took over management of the property.

When I mentioned this to Basil, thinking to amuse him with the superstition of other men, he surprised me still further by stating he believed the rumours were true, and the Manor indeed haunted.

“Then why have I never seen any sign of such spirits?” I exclaimed, thinking he planned to practice on my credulity.

“They do not walk during the day; and do not like what I am, and so avoid my presence at night,” he answered.

Now, I had by then slept a week under his roof, and on only one occasion had my rest been interrupted by any sounds that might have come from such a source as ghosts. This was, in short, that singular and unquiet night I spent before discovering him lying in the chapel. I had my own suspicions as to how this had occurred and laid them before him.

I have never seen Basil’s cheeks so hot as when I confronted him in this manner. He confessed that my careless words the night before had put him in a fright and he had not attended at my window to drive away the spirits and protect my slumber, as he had done hitherto.

“You mean to say, it was _not_ a curtain I saw that morning?” I said teasingly.

He blushed further and admitted his deception before assuring me he would never have intruded on my privacy except with the best of intentions. In this, I believed him, and yet I would not allow him to escape my scrutiny.

“And what of the other dreams?” I further inquired. “Were they, also, your invention?”

“Truly, I know of none beyond the shared vision we have already spoken of.”

He then entreated me to describe the things I had dreamt, so he could be certain he had not misled me, and it was my turn to colour with mortification and his to laugh at my folly.

I include a record of this conversation not only to settle those final little mysteries I have mentioned but not resolved through my narrative thus far, but also to show you the true and playful affection that exists between us. 

Much has been written on the vampire. "Magia Posthuma," "Phlegon de Mirabilibus," "Augustinus de cura pro Mortuis," "Philosophicae et Christianae Cogitationes de Vampiris," by John Christofer Herenberg; and a thousand others – all dwell on the creature’s wickedness. I daresay many are indeed wicked, as many men who call themselves Christians are.

However, my friend’s case proves that one can be a vampire and still the best of men.

I would never risk exposing him by publishing such a statement while he lives, but I hope that, by recording this faithfully and placing it in your care, I may eventually add a dissenting view to that venerable collection of literature.

**Author's Note:**

> [@super-duper-twelve](https://super-duper-twelve.tumblr.com/) made art of [part III: A Troubling Night](https://captain-aralias.tumblr.com/post/641730924490407936) (i.e. Simon's sexy dream). it's lovely - enjoy!


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